


I've been by myself remembering you

by horusporus



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Boys Kissing, Hot Springs & Onsen, M/M, Original Character(s), hot boys, i just want them happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 21:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10052525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horusporus/pseuds/horusporus
Summary: Baze Malbus went away after stealing a kiss. Now he's back. Chirrut Îmwe in the meantime, is a man of action. A Temple-era fic(alternate summary: hot boys, making up and making love)





	

**Author's Note:**

> AnnieD asked me for a prompt for a fic to write. I ended up writing my own prompt, what kind of Inception tomfoolery.
> 
> Title taken from Snakehips's Cruel (ft. Zayn)

Coming back to the city after a sojourn was always hard for any pilgrim, more so when it coincided with the equinox celebrations. NiJedhans and foreigners, tourists and seekers, all thronged the temple which had, as its custom, opened its doors to the public today. Grand Elder Harith had just led the mass prayers and washed the feet of the selected poor, and now other Guardians were going through the crowd passing out alms, or serving food at the plaza that for the day had been converted into a dining hall of sorts. Baze would have been one of those in the thick of it, but he had only just returned before the dawn bell was rung, and Doyenne Kumari had allowed him dispensation for the day.  

He lingered as much as he could in the kitchens, catching up with the cooks and letting them fill his ear with gossip and belly with congee. But his hard won cultivated sense of duty pressed on him, and he took a breath before stepping out into the opened areas of the temple. It was a day of service, for the Guardians, and while he was not yet a full-fledged one, it mattered not a bit to the public about the colour of his underrobe and sash, just that he wore one in the first place. And so, Baze moved through the crowd like a beacon, catching the eyes and hands of seekers and beseechers, and he did what he could when he could, more so as he had no specific duty to attend to that day.

Still, the press and volume of life was overwhelming, especially after a full month away in the stark wilderness of Jedha. Eventually he yielded, and allowed himself to be taken away by Soefira, his tanned hand in her darker smaller one, for an urgent matter that needed his attention.

The matter being Chirrut.

“It’s not time for me to talk about it yet,” he said stiffly, caught off-guard by the blunt mention of Îmwe’s name. His senses were still tweaked and nervous, preoccupied as they were by the crush of people, and his relentless scan for any sign of Chirrut. If this needed talking, it needed talking between him and Chirrut first of all. He owed Chirrut that much, especially with the way he turned and ran into his religious obligation, and a month of silence.

Soefira snorted inelegantly. “That answers that then,” was all she said before not-so-gently pushing Baze past the gathering crowd into the Second Hall. Almost immediately the humidity of the cavern’s hot springs made themselves known by the sudden prickle of sweat on his temples.

The Second Hall was one of the Temple’s established public areas, being one of the few natural hot springs within a day’s journey for most NiJedhans. But even so, this was ridiculously packed.

 “It was decided that one of the exhibition performances will be taking place in the main alcove,” Soefira informed him, looking up to him with an amused expression. What the joke was, Baze did not know, but it was evident Soefira found it incredibly funny, as they continued past more people, who made way in deference of their Guardian robes and Baze’s bulk, which Soefira was fully taking advantage of, as she made sure she stayed fully in the space left by his wake, behind him, her hand firmly on his back.

 Soefira nodded to an acolyte when they finally reached the barrier. “His second,” she introduced. Second? Whose second? Baze wondered.

 There was no answer for him, for almost immediately hand drums started, deep and low and long in intervals. Soefira nodded to him, and stepped away to greet the crowd. She thanked them, and the Force, and explained the significance of this year’s solar equinox. She led them in a short prayer, punctuated by the hand drums, the beat of which seemed to call sympathetically upon every cell of Baze’s body, the indescribable joy that had led him to devote himself to the Temple. The abrupt cessation of the drums as the prayers ended pulled him out of his semi-conscious trance, and he became keenly aware once more, of the pulsing life that was packed in the alcove, the heat of the caverns that was in contrast to the dry cold outside, and--

 And the heartbeat of the one whose being he could not forget, not for the years they have spent together, and the month he had spent alone.

 “--Master Chirrut Imwe!” Soefira called out, to polite claps, as she left the centre of the makeshift stage to rejoin Baze by the side, hidden away slightly by the polished rock formation where rows of nazar candles were left to burn.

 Baze’s startled eyes softened Soefira’s pleased expression. “It was his idea,” she explained. “He had hoped yours was to be a short sojourn.”

 His voice cracked like he was that late-blooming 15-year-old instead of a rapidly approaching 19. “He did this for me?”

 Soefira snorted, as per her wont. Unlike him, Soefira was born into the Temple. A childhood amongst adults had left her with mannerisms that befitted a doyenne rather than a seventh-level Guardian. Such as the case when it came to her friendship with Baze, in her middle-aged exasperation at his tangle with Chirrut, even if she was only technically Baze’s agemate despite being born late in the year.

 “He didn’t want to wait for your explanations and recriminations, I suppose,” Soefira said lowly, conscious of the drumbeats starting up again, with the accompaniment of the reed whistles and brass bells. “He wanted to serve the next volley.”

 “I didn’t intend it to be a _game_ ,” Baze protested.

 Soefira looked at him, with that familiar exasperation. “Well, but surely you took a gamble, didn’t you, Master Malbus?” The final gong punctuated her question, and with the satisfied air of someone whose flair for the dramatics was answered, Soefira turned her attention to where Chirrut would enter.

 Chirrut stepped onto the space, dressed in summer fashion. Unlike most of the crowd and the rest of the Guardians, he was not warmly wrapped. He wore moccasins and loose earth-coloured cotton trousers, cinched at the waist by the deep blue sash of his level. He was shirtless, but already lightly sweating, clearly well-warmed up and ready to begin.

 Baze had by then stopped pretending that he did not find joy in Chirrut’s physical observance of the Force. And to be greeted, on his first day back, with the clear articulation of the ancient forms as expressed by the smooth deliberate movements of Chirrut’s body, it was as though Chirrut had realised that there was another hunger that Baze had not yet satisfied.

 In this incarnation, Chirrut’s movements were a dance rather than a fight. The crowd was entranced, as was Baze, by the skill and the ease with which Chirrut moved his body, bending it into impossible shapes, moving in harmony with the living Force as it emerged from the rushing wet heat deep in the cavern walls that flowed and bubbled in the pools and springs surrounding them. His skin grew slicker with sweat and humidity and Baze felt caught by the observation.

 Soefira threw a smirk in his direction, and waited for him to acknowledge her before pointing to the second who now entered the space. And now Baze saw, the purposefully handicapped performance of this dance. It was the Movement of the The Polar Star, and it had always meant to be performed in a pair. A pair was always meant to start together, and to stay in perfect mirrors, mimicking the journey of the planet Pasia around the Polar Star at this time of the year.

 But sometimes, a Shadow Movement would be performed. And the second, fully shrouded like the acolyte in the space with Chirrut, would always follow half a step behind. Incomplete and imperfect. It was still beautiful especially to foreign eyes, but not to Jedhans and anyone familiar with the lore. Baze’s heart seized, as the drums and the reeds switched to their lower register, and the whole accompaniment moved to the minor key. He could not decide where to look, he did not know where to look. He caught the eye of a sympathetic aunty deep in the throng, and that tipped him into quiet tears.

 Soefira took his hand, and squeezed it while the movement continued to its end.

 Chirrut’s face was stoic, as he took his bow, but Baze could see his shoulders trembling in more than just exertion.

 “I have to--” he started.

 “Wait,” Soefira advised. Baze took another unsteady breath, and averted his eyes away. Some of the people who were drifting away leaving the caverns were unashamedly wiping their eyes, but something more than just Soefira stayed his hand. He felt deserving of this enveloping sadness, but he was barely holding on from giving himself over completely.

 “Wait,” Soefira said again, while she stared expectantly at the stragglers who hastily made their exits too.

 He waited. He kept his silence even as he was urged to his feet, even as he was led past the other Guardians tidying up, even as he was brought to an antechamber that was usually reserved for the elders or guests such as the Jedi. The rooms in the cavern, minimally finished and polished, were still the most prized in all of the temple, for like the rest of the cave system in the Second Hall, it’s favourably temperate from the hot water flowing through the rock. It was not often for a mere Guardian be given this luxury, which made it clear it was for Chirrut, in recognition for his service today. For it was service, was it not? Charitable works in the Temple’s practice had never just been furnishing the physical needs of the moon’s pilgrims. The soul must be nourished once the body is sated, and what Chirrut gave today will probably be the talk of the town for many moons yet.

 Baze wished that he had never performed it at all.

 Soefira left him there, with another meaningful look. Baze understood, once he followed her gaze to the wicker basket by the pallet. He nodded, and when she finally left, he took the first loud breath he dared to take since the drums let loose the worry he had nursed in his isolation. He took stock of the room, of the door leading to the one of the smaller springs, and the general state of his own agitation.

 He had taken advantage of both his duty, and of Chirrut. In his anxiety, he had merely hurt his best friend. Before anything else, that was what Chirrut was to Baze. Laughing, light-hearted, and sardonic Chirrut, whom steady, obedient, dutiful Baze had managed to hurt. There was a lot to make up for, and words will come, but as they were both taught, actions must follow.

 Baze settled himself by the pallet, kneeling, the wicker basket within reach.

 He didn’t have to wait long, but still he remained head bowed, even as Chirrut made note of his presence though it didn’t interrupt his prowling around the room.

 “Truly today has been a day of blessings,” Chirrut said quietly, but no less pointedly.

 “I seek to serve in penance,” Baze replied in rote.

 Chirrut came closer, stalking carefully before standing before Baze. “Penance for what, Master Malbus? What could possibly a newly sojourned Guardian had have done that penance must be served?”

 Baze lifted his head and faced Chirrut squarely. “I have done you wrong.”

 “Have you?” Chirrut cocked his head in inquiry, his milky-blue eyes shuttered as though coy. “As you can see, I am well, I am able, and in fact, many would say I am content.”

 Baze fell silent. Usually that would be an opening to another round of banter, another round of wordplay. He took in Chirrut’s face, his now-clothed body, his general demeanour. There had always been a slow deep fire banked in Chirrut. People often mistook his good nature for pliability, when the fact was Chirrut Îmwe was born angry. His disposition was the cheerful acceptance of a born cynic, who had long accepted the deep disappointments in life in theory if not in practice. In the early days this was where they clashed. Most assumed Baze was often disappointed in Chirrut when it was really the other way around. Baze could not follow the path of Chirrut’s philosophy without drawing the conclusions of despair, something that Chirrut has only lately learnt to live with peaceably. He had begun to consider Baze’s idealism as something to be cherished in fact, which discomfited and pleased Baze in equal measure.  

 But now Baze had disappointed Chirrut again.

 Baze turned his head down again, and bowed deeply. Chirrut remained motionless. Baze reached out a hand, and touched the tips of Chirrut’s toes. That was all he dared to do in the moment.

 Almost immediately Chirrut wrenched his foot away. But almost immediately Chirrut too fell to floor, and wrenched Baze’s shoulders away from the ground, and held his chin. It was unnerving to see that fire in Chirrut’s sightless eyes aimed at him.

 “You stupid fool,” Chirrut breathed, as he pulled Baze into a kiss.

 This would be their second kiss. The first was just before Baze left, and what precipitated this scene. The one that Baze took in fear of never having another. The one that left Chirrut gobsmacked before Baze rushed away to join the ceremony of his departure.

 Baze kissed Chirrut expecting it to never be reciprocated. But here he was, kneeling before the person he cherished most in this life and the next, being kissed thoroughly. Chirrut had crawled closer, and Baze’s body was shocked into stillness by the unexpected sensations before he clumsily raised his arms to wind themselves around Chirrut. This left him unprotected from being bent further backwards, but for Chirrut’s steady arms on his back and head. The kiss was clumsy as they were both clumsy, impatient as they were both impatient, too much teeth and too little tongue. But Chirrut was in his arms, and he was in Chirrut’s arms,  and finally they had come together in their own dance.

 “You stupid _stupid_ fool,” Chirrut said again.

 Baze could only press his forehead harder against Chirrut’s. “Yes, but-- I am your fool, aren’t I?”

 Chirrut took his face in his hands again. “You, Baze Malbus, need to better at presuming what’s yours.” He traced Baze’s cheekbones, his nose, his brows, and the cupid bow of his mouth. His voice was full of marvel. “That you even had doubts at all.”

 “We had been friends for so long, I didn’t--”

 “And I thought I was the blind one,” Chirrut ribbed. Literally too, as Baze belatedly avoided the sharp finger poking his sides.  “Force,” Chirrut breathed, “but you have grown thin. This would not do. A growing boy like you.”

 Baze’s face flamed, and he gently took hold of Chirrut’s roaming fingers. “Wait,” he said. “Wait,” he said again, laughing, as Chirrut’s stole kisses along his jaw and his ears. “Please. I-- I need to--” He helplessly gestured at the wicker basket, and then brought Chirrut’s right hand to the basket. “I seek to serve in penance,” he said the ritual phrase again, only to dissolve in giggles when Chirrut only continued to bite his earlobe.

 “Fine,” Chirrut huffed. He sat back on his heels. “Serve me then.”

Baze unfolded himself in a daze, and allowed a lifetime of practice to move his body in the ritual. Gently, he brought Chirrut to his feet, his own hands now steady on Chirrut’s lower back and upper arm. He moved in front of his beloved boy and slowly loosened the belt that held his top together. Slowly he slipped them off his shoulders. If he had taken liberties and gently ran his fingers following the uncovered skin, no one else in this room was going to object. Certainly not Chirrut, who exhaled a curse but remained still in deference.

 He tapped Chirrut’s belly and turned to get the woven jadra robe from the basket. He kept his eyes averted as he held the robe high for Chirrut to put them on. He was about to lead them to the spring when Chirrut placed a hand on his chest.

 “What about you?”

 This broke the slight trance he was in. “Me?” he asked in confusion.

 Chirrut kept his hand on his chest, head bowed, listening to something. If asked, he would always invariably say the Force, so Baze waited. Finally Chirrut lifted his head.

 “Your penance is served.”

 “But. But--” Baze started to object.

 “No, it is served. I accept fully your penance.”

 Baze was becoming extremely conscious of the heavy hand over his heart. “It hardly seemed fair,” he grumbled.

 Chirrut laughed at this. “I’ve said the words, you know it’s bad manners to take them back. Do you want me to be bad?”

 “Not… exactly.”

 “Let’s be bad in another way,” Chirrut whispered.

 Baze’s eyes widened. “Chirrut!”

 “The Hall is currently empty. Soefira has very kindly informed me so before I came in, did you know?”

 Baze’s mind stuttered at this. What… “What exactly are you saying?”

 “I’m saying, the solar equinox is a time of celebration. Let’s celebrate.”

 “You’re a bad influence,” Baze said solemnly, his own mouth quirked helplessly in amusement.

 Chirrut hummed in agreement. “Can I influence you perhaps to join me?”

 Baze recklessly threw his arms akimbo. “All right.”

 This time, Chirrut did not waste his time lingering. He disrobed Baze efficiently, so sure in his movements it was as though they had done this before. Well, they had, but usually in the reverse direction, Chirrut straightening his robes, or helping him lay all his layers right.

 But not this time, and Chirrut had no reason to avert his eyes, but still he made no motion to remove his gaze. Baze flushed again in the frank sightless gaze. He was built for solidity, not for grace. While Chirrut was maturing into elegance, Baze was firming up for presence. To put it politely.

 “Oh, to look at you,” Chirrut sighed. “What a wonder you must be.”

 “There’s no need to flatter what’s already yours,” Baze said, a little irritably.

 Chirrut only smiled, as he bent down to take another robe from the basket, and the small towels. The towels he flung over his shoulder, while the robe he put it on Baze himself, manually moving his arms here and there into the sleeves. His touch was sure, and possessive. Chirrut was certain of Baze, and Baze could not deny it.

 “Have you ever known me to flatter with empty words?” he said simply, and took Baze’s hand to the alcove where their hot spring lie in wait.

 They took off their robes separately, and rinsed themselves separately. By unspoken agreement, they didn’t look at each other. Not until they were both in the spring, the mineral-rich heat heavy on their senses.

 And like a veil was lifted, they finally truly could see each other. Baze could only wonder how he registered in Chirrut’s mind. In his, Chirrut was a pillar of flame, bound by supreme will.

 A very wet, insistent, pillar of flame, with roaming hands that just would not quit. They giggled like petty thieves, stealing kisses and touches. He learned how much Chirrut liked being kissed, but not being bitten. Well, maybe that could be negotiated later down the line. Chirrut was learning how sensitive his chest could be, and seemed extremely taken by the width of his chest, the expanse of his abdomen. He’s discovering the joy of holding Chirrut by the handfuls, this wonderful, witty, _naughty_ boy, with a bottom that needed more investigation.

Both of them seemed a little shy to play with each other’s cocks, but. _But that was the best part_. Slippery hands on slippery cocks, it seemed daring to do this here, where their moans and sighs were echoing brokenly in the cavernous space. His hips were ticklish in the steamy water, while Chirrut shivered the more he himself played with Baze with his own feet. At some point, Chirrut rode his thighs, and he was shaking while his fingers were pressing bruises on Baze’s back. Baze himself was overwhelmed by the sensation of rutting against Chirrut’s stomach.

 It didn’t take long. They were teenage boys.

It felt like his skin was still jumping from the aftershocks. Furtively they looked around. Soefira held her word it seemed like. They looked at each other with some kind of amazement and awe, that it happened at all. He felt warm all over, his heart beating fast. Chirrut looked no better, and now his lids looked sleepy and satisfied. It left an itch deep in Baze, and a stunned joy that this would be a look that he could chase after again and again. Impulsively he kissed him, and he could taste in Chirrut the same stunned delight that they had found each other.

This time, when they left the pool they were no longer shy with each other. Hands and lips and teeth and tongue, they came together again and again, robes forgotten, as they crashed onto the by now too-small-pallet. But they’d make do. He would never want to be parted again.

 =======END========


End file.
